


The Mourning Queen

by dCryptid



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Pre-Canon, Sad, sad as hell, that's all there is to say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 21:45:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5801398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dCryptid/pseuds/dCryptid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She hopes he truly understands how much he means to her."</p><p>Some vignettes from the life of Jessamine Kaldwin, who lived a life colored by sorrow and tinted by joy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mourning Queen

            Jessamine stands by her father’s side, squinting against the bright sunlight that fills the courtyard. She wants to raise her hand to shield her eyes, and could probably get away with it too, but she doesn’t. When she looks up her father, his golden hair almost as bright as the sun that shines on both their faces, he looks entirely unperturbed, and so she keeps her hands neatly clasped in front of her.

            Before them are rows of soldiers, each crisply uniformed and immaculately groomed, superficially identical and entirely distinct from each other. Tall and short, blonde and brunette, stocky and slim, some with a chestful of glinting medals and some with none at all - she is fascinated at how something as simple as clothing can take a group of individuals and turn them into a regiment. She’s not sure if she likes it, but it is terribly impressive to look at.

            The row of men directly in front of her and her father stand slightly apart from the rest, isolated from the main ranks of the regiment by an empty space. Her father had told her that they had been gifts from the ruler of Serkonos, and they had undergone many hard months of work and evaluation to ensure that they were fit, loyal, and ready to join the forces of Dunwall. “Theodanis has sent us some of his finest men,” her father had said as he knelt before her in the hallway, adjusting the collar of her blouse, “and so we must be very appreciative of what he has done for us.”

            The Serkonian soldiers are sharp and alert-looking, all of them standing flawlessly to attention as her father surveys them. “Duke Theodanis has done me a great honor by sending such fine-looking soldiers to join my own men,” he proclaims, in his big, booming Emperor-voice that manages to be both intimidating and reassuring at the same time. “It is a shame that he cannot be here so I can thank him personally.”

            When he uses his big voice, she cannot help but think of him as Emperor Euhorn, but when he looks down at her his eyes are twinkling, and he is her father again. “What do you think, Jessamine? I would value your opinion of these men.” He always does his best to include her in everything, when he can - she’s twelve now, old enough to be a part of matters, and she’s going to be Empress herself one day. She loves being included things, and thinks that he likes including her. He’s proud of her, and wants the world to know it.

            She leaves her place at her father’s side, clasping her hands behind her back as she walks along the ranks like she’s seen the captains do. She does her best to look down her nose at the new recruits while still having to look up at them, and while she knows she must look slightly silly none of them react to it. She appreciates that.

            At the end of the ranks there is a soldier who looks younger than the rest. His hair and eyes and skin are dark, like the rest of the Serkonians, but his features are slightly less sharp and his build less filled out, though he stands just as tall and straight as the rest. She stops in front of him and stares, directly into his eyes, and he doesn’t flinch. She squints, like her father does when he disapproves of something, and the young soldier looks startled.

            She thinks she’s seen him around, once or twice - at the heels of one of the captains, or on duty at the gates. He always looked her way - everyone looks her way, of course, she _is_ going to be the Empress one day - but his face was always quiet, calm, so much different from the rowdy Gristolian soldiers who shouted and swore whenever they thought no one of import was around to hear them.

            “Father,” she says, using her best Empress-voice - she’s been practicing, though she’ll never admit it - “you said these were some of the Duke’s finest men?”

            “Yes,” her father replies, and she can tell he’s amused without even having to look at him. “Do you agree with his assessment? Or is there a problem?”

            She doesn’t reply. Instead, she stands up as tall as she can and faces down the young Serkonian, who has regained his composure. “Tell me,” she commands, “what is it that made you one of the finest soldiers on Serkonos, and qualifies you to join the ranks here in Dunwall?”

            The young soldier looks surprised by her question, but he is quiet and confident when he answers. “I won the Blade Verbana three years ago, the youngest champion in the history of the tournament.” His voice is accented, musical. “As is tradition, I was made an officer in the Grand Serkonian Guard. My superiors have had nothing but praise for my talents in combat, and I have never been cited for any transgressions that might bring my loyalty to the Empire into question. The Duke himself took notice of my skills, and appointed me to be a part of the envoy sent here to Dunwall.” He pauses. “To serve you, your Highness, and your lord father.”

            She likes his answer. She likes it quite a bit, but does her best to not show it. “What is your name?” she inquires, squaring her shoulders as much as she can.

            His posture is unwavering. “Corvo Attano, your Highness.”

            She likes _him_ \- oh, does she ever, with his crisp uniform and dark eyes and perfect, practiced deference, that rhyming name carried on the back of a melodic voice; it is immediately apparent that this young man has more poise and dignity than most of the people she has ever met..

            Jessamine turns her back on Corvo, a spontaneous spark of rebellion setting a fire in her chest. “Father,” she says. “I’m supposed to choose a Royal Protector soon, am I not?”

            He’s surprised, golden eyebrows arched. “Well, yes,” he replies. “I’ve arranged the ceremony with the generals - it’s to be about two weeks from now, I’m sure I told you-”

            She interrupts him. “I choose this one,” she says, and points to the young Serkonian soldier behind her.

            Her father’s mouth falls open, and she can hear gasps from all around her, but she doesn’t look. She simply stares at her father with all the intensity she can muster.

            “Jessamine,” he stammers, “you can’t do that.”

            “Yes I can.”

            “There are procedures, traditions-”

            “I don’t care.”

            Her father swallows, and he looks over her head at the young Serkonian. “There has never before been a Royal Protector who came from an island other than Gristol.”

            “ _I don’t care_ ,” Jessamine repeats. “He’s qualified, isn’t he? And so I, Jessamine Kaldwin, heir to the throne of the Empire of the Isles, declare Corvo Attano to be my Royal Protector.” With that she turns away from her father, back to Corvo, and crosses her arms. “Do you accept?” she asks him.

            Corvo’s face is flushed, his expression broken. “How could I not?” he replies, weakly, and Jessamine smiles. Somewhere behind her she can hear her father babbling about a trial period, necessary steps to take, approvals, et cetera - things she would usually be interested in, as part of learning to become a proper ruler. But right now, the most interesting thing in the world is the young soldier in front of her, and the blush staining his high cheekbones, and the strange look in his eyes as he returns her gaze.

 

            (It’s not often she can make him lose his composure - he’s so calm, so stoic - and while she treasures every time she has made him lose face, the first will always be the most precious.)

________________________________________________

 

            It’s the Month of Rain, and the heavy clouds that darken the sky lend credibility to the name. Though the downpour is chill, and has gone on for days, the fire burning in the hearth has kept Jessamine’s room warm and bright.

            She doesn’t mind being kept inside for days on end. It makes the Tower quiet, and gives her time to read without being bothered. She has books from all across the Isles, and devours them at a steady pace when she has the opportunity. She’s had less and less time to read as she gets older and takes on more responsibility, her father guiding her through the intricacies of leading an empire, but the books are always waiting for her at the end of the day.

            Now she lays in bed, the heavy covers drawn up across her lap, a warm robe draped about her shoulders. The book in her hands is thick, inviting, an embellished account of the history of Morely, and it rings with all the fervor and creativity that the island is known for. She’s been caught up in it for days, but today she can’t seem to focus. Books, no matter how reliable they may be, are hardly her most constant companion, and they cannot hope to recapture her attention from the one who is always at her side.

            He stands at the window, looking out, the light shifting through the rain and glass making dappled patterns on his face and shoulders. His back is straight, hands clasped neatly at the small of it, his eyes intent and alert. But there is no danger here, in the safety of her quarters, and his posture is relaxed, his attention caught more by the rain itself than by what the downpour might be hiding in the courtyard below.

            Corvo is always with her, always watching over her. It is his sworn duty - no matter the time, no matter the circumstance, he is at her side. He holds himself to his task with a rigidity that has impressed everyone, even her father, even the skeptics who claimed that a man from another isle could never truly be loyal to the crown. But despite his unwavering stance, his coat is draped over the back of a nearby chair, and his hair has grown slightly longer about his ears than is perhaps proper for a man of his status.

            She likes it. She wonders if he knows she likes it, and has let it grow on purpose.

            She realizes that she’s been reading the same paragraph over and over without taking in a word of it, distracted by the rain-painted figure at her window, and lays the tome down across her lap. She slips a bookmark between the pages, quietly, but still she sees the slight movement of his head towards her at the sound. Ever vigilant, ever aware, always there for her when she has needed him.

            Perhaps it’s improper for the Empress-to-be to have her Royal Protector in her bedchamber, but she doesn’t worry about improper when the whole world knows that he is proper to a fault.

            “Corvo,” she says, and he looks to her, “come sit with me.” She puts the book aside with one hand and pats the bed beside her with the other.

            If he’s surprised he does not show it, and he comes and sits at the edge of the mattress, his weight making the bedframe creak. He always listens, always obeys, and her heart could break for how unquestioningly he does so.

            “Is something wrong?” he asks, quietly. She’s managed to break him of the habit of calling her “your Highness,” at least when they are in private - it was a struggle, but worth it in the end, to hear the timbre of his voice without the addition of formalities. His dark eyes are slightly concerned. His whole world is her well-being, and she trembles before his devotion. It’s a struggle to regain her courage before it deserts her completely

            She shakes her head. “Corvo,” she says, and she can’t help the way her chin dips towards her collarbone, the drop of her eyelids as she looks up at him from under them, “would you kiss me?”

            For the first time she can remember, he does not listen; he balks, stands, moves away. “My lady,” he says, and she can hear the quaver in his voice, “you are my _charge_ , I-” He stops himself, and she slips out of the bed to follow him, bare feet soundless on the thick rug that carpets the floor.

            “Corvo-” she is tempted to plead with him, but refrains “-you know I wouldn’t ask anything of you that I was not serious about.”

            His eyes are wide, and he holds his ground as she approaches, only stepping back when she reaches out to touch him. “I...I am confused as to why you are serious,” he replies, after a long moment’s thought.

            Thought is not necessary for her - she’s thought about it enough, over the months and years, more and more with every passing day, and it’s a relief to finally speak the words aloud. “Corvo, how could I be anything _but_ serious? When you stood in that courtyard, among ranks of men who were your equals and your lessers and your superiors, and I picked _you_ to guard me, I did so because I could see that you were a good man. And you are a good man, to this very day, to this minute.”

            He’s confused, but she carries on. “Alert, but not wary. Straight-backed, but not stiff. Confident, but not cocky. Obedient, but not without your own will. And when you answered my questions, you were honest, more honest than anyone had ever been to me before that day.

            “And I am being as honest with you now as you were with me then, and as you have always been. You are a good man. And as the years have passed, as I’ve grown and seen more of the world, I’ve come to realize that there will never be another man as good as you.” She looks him in the eyes. “ _Never_ , Corvo.”

            He does not break her gaze. “I have not always been honest with you,” he breathes, and she knows exactly what he means.

            When she rests her hands on his shoulders, he does not pull away. When she stands on her toes to match his height, he brings his hands to her waist to support her. And when she presses her lips to his, he kisses her back, draws her close, bends over her like he can shield her from the world.

            She draws away first, and he presses his cheek to hers. “We can never be open about this,” he whispers, his voice tinted with the accent he’s worked so hard to suppress, and something else as well - heartbreak, admiration, honesty, fear. She feels as though she may come apart in his hands, but he holds her together.

            “Then let us be our own secret,” she whispers back, and kisses him again. He wraps his arms around her, slowly, hesitantly, but they are strong and they hold her close.

 

            (He had only hugged her once before - the night her mother had died.)

________________________________________________

 

            She can hardly believe that Emily is six years old. Six years old, and the spitting image of Jessamine herself at that age - fair-skinned and dark-haired, with a sweet face and bright laughter that warms the very air. The royal gardens are in full summer, sunlight shifting through the leaves of the trees and the bushes rioting with blossoms in every color one can imagine. In the midst of all this brightness, Emily is luminous, romping across the lawns with sunlight haloing her hair and staining the shoulders of her blouse.

            No one has questioned her daughter’s legitimacy, her claim to the throne, and Jessamine knows she is lucky - lucky that her father was beloved, that she is beloved, that the people would happily see another Kaldwin on the throne and not question the name of her father. Lucky that Emily is her mirror - no hint of her father’s darkness in her skin, and no russet in her hair - it’s as black as the wing of the bird for which her father was named.

            It fans out behind her as she turns, laughing, dodging his reaching arms. She’s light on her feet, quick as the wind, but Corvo is quicker and scoops her up. She laughs louder as he spins her, broad hands holding her securely under her arms. He’s smiling, teeth bright against his dusky complexion, and Emily shrieks as he tosses her into the air.

            Lucky that Jessamine’s people know their Royal Protector’s devotion to their Empress, and do not question his devotion to her daughter.

            The pregnancy had been difficult, the birth more so. The physicians had told her that she would likely never conceive again, and that it would be dangerous if she did. Her heart was heavy with the curse of her lineage - the curse which took her mother and sibling from her - and when she held the newborn Emily in her arms for the first time it did nothing to soothe her.

            When Corvo was finally allowed in to see her, his brow creased with worry, nerves strained from the hours he had spent away from her side, Jessamine cried. He ordered the doctors and nurses from the room before settling down beside her, holding her close, and though she wept into his shoulder until she was spent she could not quell the hurt. Despite the evidence of success that was nestled in the crook of her elbow, small and new to this world, she still somehow felt that she had failed. Failed her people, failed herself, failed Corvo.

He was quiet, unquestioning, keeping her securely in his embrace until she had no more tears left. Gently, he took Emily from her, and she let him. The baby, who had been quiet throughout her mother’s distress, began to make noises - small sounds, content.

            Jessamine raised her head, wiped her eyes, and opened them to the most beautiful sight she had seen in all her years - Corvo, with his daughter cradled in his arms, dark eyes soft and adoring as he stroked her tiny face with one broad thumb. Curled over her, around her, like he could guard her from the world.

            In that moment, Jessamine forgot all the sadness she had ever known.

            Emily giggles as she scampers across the lawn, grass staining her bare knees and feet. Corvo follows, picks her up, falls, shielding her body with his as he collapses onto his back on the lawn. His eyes are warm, dark liquid shot through with sunlight, laugh lines crinkling the corners as he looks up at his daughter. And Emily’s eyes looking down are an exact match - dark, rich, glowing with light and laughter.

            She rolls away from him and runs, kicking up grass as he scrambles to his feet to give chase once again. Jessamine smiles, watching, laughs as her daughter raises a hand and shouts to her before once again being caught in her father’s firm embrace.

 

            (She is lucky to have such a beautiful family, and her only regret is that she cannot share them fully with the world.)

________________________________________

 

            He calls her “Jessa” as he kisses her whiskey-soaked lips, the husk of his accent a thrill all its own, and she laughs and kisses him back just as gently. The room is a place of comforting weight - smoke from the cigars hanging heavy in the air, the glass in her hand cool and firm against her palm, the solid shape of Corvo beneath her as she leans into his side. The presence of his voice, as rich as the cushions that support them both as they curl up together in this private place.

            She’s never had a nickname for him. He has always been Corvo and nothing else, in seclusion and out in the open air. But in her heart he is beloved, he is adored, he is her happiness, her most precious and cherished joy. She could never find the words to voice aloud all that he is to her, but there is no need to do so and they both know it.

            Even as her empire struggles, the very city that she lives in fighting to survive, he kindles a light inside of her that cannot go out. It gives her the strength to hold her head up in the face of any adversity, to lead her people to the best of her ability even on the darkest of days. Her most vital responsibility is to be a figurehead against the forces that would tear the walls of her empire down around her, to give hope to those who have depended on her - to be a beacon in the storm of illness and ruin that has blanketed her world.

            She dresses in shades of grey, now, somber but not mournful, and Corvo is the dark coat ever at her side, but inside they are so bright and shining that she sometimes feels that it must be visible in her eyes.

            She leans into him, insistent, interrupting the glass of whiskey at his lips in order to kiss him again. His arm curls around her shoulders, shielding her, and she can feel him smile against her mouth. Here, in this room, the darkness outside is forgotten, and she revels in his happiness, the way it feeds and inspires her own joy. Each of them is stronger for the strength of the other, and together they are untouchable, unstoppable, loved. She tucks herself under his chin, his pulse steady and warm against her cheek.

            He is leaving soon, to visit the other isles, to plead for their assistance in combating the misfortune that has befallen Gristol, Dunwall - her home. She can hardly bear the thought of being apart from him for so long, but knows that he is the only one she can send. When the rulers of the other isles find him standing before them, the message he carries will have that much more power - the Royal Protector himself, begging their aid in protecting the Isles from a terrible fate. She has given him her heart, her honesty, her devotion, and knows that only he can communicate all that she stands for to the rest of her nation.

            She hopes she has shared the courage he gives her with her people. She hopes he truly understands how much he means to her.

 

            (Had she known that she would die in his arms, she would have taken her own life first.)

**Author's Note:**

> the usual spiel about how I've been sitting on this forever, finally posting it, etc etc. 
> 
> obviously the proper reaction to being REALLY EXCITED about Dishonored 2 was to write REALLY SAD SHIT about my thoughts concerning Jessamine and Corvo because lets be real, the beginning of Dishonored is absolutely crushing even though we know almost nothing about Jessamine and her prior relationship with her guardian when it happened, and thinking about how that relationship could have been to make it even more crushing is the obvious way to go.
> 
> this is as close to canon-accurate as I can get it using details provided by the game and the developers (dates, Royal Protector selection process, the histories of all characters, etc), because I still prefer to write with compliance to canon because Arkane did an A+ fab job with the story and backstory for Dishonored and I would never ever want to sully it.
> 
> now I sit on my hands until I can play as Emily aka Bitch Empress Queen of My Heart Please Let Me Love You Oh My God


End file.
